


here I might learn happiness, I might learn peace of mind

by notlucy



Series: Give a Little, Take a Little [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, Also the fun kind, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BDSM, But the fun kind, Corporal Punishment, Crying, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, In a manner of speaking, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, POV Bucky Barnes, Paddling, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Sex Work, Sexual Roleplay, Spanking, Sub Bucky Barnes, Threats of Violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26843515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: It has been a long month, and Bucky has an itch he doesn't know needs scratching. Steve is more than happy to give it a scritch.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Give a Little, Take a Little [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1263104
Comments: 107
Kudos: 712





	here I might learn happiness, I might learn peace of mind

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a continuation of the world established in the _[Give a Little, Take a Little](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1263104)_ series. You don't necessarily need to read the rest of the stories for context, but if you're in for a penny, might as well be in for a pound.

It has been a long month.

Exceedingly long, and exceedingly lacking. The longest month Bucky can recall, and that includes the month that led up to his and Becca’s twelfth birthday when he _knew_ there was a PlayStation 2 coming. (Because he’d seen it in his parents’ closet when looking for his hoodie one day, as the endless laundry cycle of two parents and two kids meant sometimes hoodies ended up in the wrong place. Only, instead of the hoodie, he’d seen the box, and the ensuing guilty spiral had been one of his earliest indications that hey, the anxiety he felt at times might be slightly more intense than the anxiety other people would feel about the same situation. Not that he understood that at the time—back then, he just hadn’t wanted to ruin the surprise by letting it slip that he knew about the gift.) 

The point being: however long that month had felt, this one feels longer.

Steve is texting more, at least. Though Bucky doesn’t know if that makes things better or worse. Better, because Steve’s texts make him feel like they left things pretty solid on the ol’ interpersonal relations scale. Worse, because of the whole…everything else. That fleeting contact isn’t nearly enough, which he feels especially deeply on the Friday night he spends with his sister. The Friday night that should have been Steve's. And for as much as he loves Becca, he can't help devoting some mental space during their time together to how much he's missing the pain and the release and the ache and the comfort that comes on the other side.

And Steve. He’s _really_ missing Steve. 

So much so that he texts him from the club Becca drags him to, sending a frowny-face with a photo of his beer. It's not dignified, but he does preserve some chill by resisting the urge to add a _miss u_ before hitting send. 

Steve doesn't answer for a bit, but when he does, it's with a beer emoji, and _make some mistakes_. Because that’s what Bucky’s supposed to be doing, right? Making mistakes. 

So, he does. Flirts with a stranger at the bar, even, which is definitely a mistake because the guy is a finance douche and also, flirting feels wrong. And wrong, for a short-term serial monogamist like Bucky, is a novel sensation. Because he is technically in between relationships, and not since his first boyfriend has he spent so much time single, and really, he should think about getting back on the apps.

But he won’t. He knows he won’t.

Which likely has something to do with the strapping man that keeps strapping him down. And strapping his ass. And strapping…

Well. Yeah. 

Except Steve’s not his boyfriend. Bucky _knows_ that, and Steve has made it quite clear. He knows you can't have a relationship with a person who only gives you pepperings of personality in between paddlings. Despite this, he doesn't enjoy flirting with finance douche half so much as he likes bantering with Steve.

However: Steve said to make mistakes. Meaning that flirting leads to dancing, which leads to a gross, saliva-filled whiskey kiss, and yeah, whew, mistake. Mistake!

When Bucky returns to the table, wiping his mouth, Becca raises a brow. “No good?”

“Nah,” he says, pulling out his phone, Steve’s text still on the screen when he opens it. 

“Who’s Steve?” Becca queries, leaning over, nosy as ever.

Bucky closes the app. “Nobody.”

“Ohhhhhh.”

“Becks…”

“Hey,” she says, holding up her hands. “I’m not prying.”

“Thank you.” He hesitates; she knows him too well. “He’s just a guy.”

“Okay.”

“I’m like…we hang out sometimes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s not that serious.”

“Great.”

“You wanna go get another drink?”

“Sure.” 

Becca doesn’t bring Steve up again before her visit is over. Bucky, meanwhile, starts counting down the days until his next session. He also makes more mistakes—three to be exact, because he likes overachieving—and finds that they’re kind of fun. Liberating, even. Like, okay, he ‘forgets’ to bring his handy-dandy notebook to a staff meeting one day, leaves his charger at home so he can’t keep his phone reliably at 100%, and even hops on the wrong train just to see where he’ll end up (answer: Queens). 

When he texts the details of his misdeeds to Steve, he’s rewarded with replies like _awesome_ or _good boy_ or _genius_. Said replies have him grinning like a doofus every time. Also? Steve was right: his mistakes aren't life-ruining or even life-altering. Mostly, nobody notices, cares, or thinks twice about his absent-mindedness. Someone lets him borrow a pen, someone else offers to let him use their charger, and an older woman helps him figure out which bus route will get him back to his neighborhood in Brooklyn.

Yeah, so, Steve’s psychological tricks for the win. He ought to be a therapist. Or a sex therapist. A spanking sex therapist.

God, Bucky needs to see him.

The last few days of their separation crawl by. Every minute an hour, every hour a year, until even the nanoseconds are epochs. Then, on the Wednesday leading up to their reunion, Steve texts him with a question that makes it very clear his torture is nearly at an end (so that the other, better torture can begin): 

> _Do you mind if I use a friend for a little while on Friday? Need an assist. She’s trustworthy and discreet. You can say no._

Curiouser and curiouser. Bucky turns the idea around in his head. If Steve wants to use someone else, it must be for a good reason, as he’s shown time and again that he’s thoughtful and diligent in his methodology. Maybe it’s a bondage thing? Like, he needs someone to help him rig a tie? That would be cool. Mostly. Interesting. A little scary, though, to think about a stranger being there, seeing him at his most vulnerable. But, it stands to reason that if she’s Steve’s colleague, she’s dealt with stranger things than his pasty ass. 

(Also, way, way deep down, he’s kinda sorta into the idea of showing off with Steve. _For_ Steve. Demonstrating to someone else how good he can be and making Steve proud and oh, Jesus, he’s not gonna get a boner at work. Absolutely not.)

Hunching over his phone, he taps back, _maybe? How involved?_

Steve’s response comes quickly: _couple of minutes, nothing intimate, you’ll have your clothes on._

Bucky’s only a little disappointed. The low-stakes of the ask makes the answer easy, so he shoots off _sure, that’s fine_ before turning back to his computer and the latest thrilling spreadsheet of his life.

Thursday brings another instructional text, and if Steve’s trying to make up for lost time by being mysterious and intriguing, he’s doing an impeccable job. 

> _Dress code: black pants, no jeans. Boxers. White button-down. Tuck it in._

They haven’t had a dress code before, but Bucky can roll with it. He sends back an _okay_ and tries not to think about why Steve wants him gussied up in business casual because he doesn't want to end up disappointed when it turns out to be something mundane.

When he arrives at the lobby of the dungeon the following evening, Steve is waiting for him. This breaks their usual pattern, and Bucky’s heart stutters a beat when he opens the door and sees Steve standing there in his t-shirt and jeans, hair a little damp like maybe he just took a shower. 

“I see you’re on time today,” he teases the minute Bucky makes eye-contact. 

“Ha,” he replies, licking his lips and forcing himself not to glance around, though his peripheral vision confirms there’s at least one other person in the lobby. Maybe two. God, he wants to kiss Steve. Hug him. Do something to acknowledge that it's been a month since they've seen each other. But he doesn't. Instead, he blurts, "I missed you," which is _so much fucking worse_. 

Steve shifts his weight from foot to foot and huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Uh. Thanks,” he manages, cutting his eyes to the hallway while Bucky considers just turning and walking out, but also: pain. And Steve. And time with Steve and pain and oh, fuck, who cares if he’s the world’s most awkward turtle? “C’mon. This way.” 

Bucky comes. Follows Steve down the hall and into the same room they'd used for the scene with the riding crop. Steve closes the door after them, then flips a small, unobtrusive switch next to it. There's a switch like that in every room, though Bucky hadn't noticed them on his first few visits. He's surmised that they turn on the red bulb that signals 'occupied' because the doors here have no locks on them. Probably for good reason.

“Give me your phone, so I can check your posture,” Steve says as he turns around.

Businesslike is the order of the day, it seems, and considering how awkward Bucky still feels about his supreme dorkiness in the lobby, he opens the app and hands his phone over without comment. 

“Thank you. Plank while I look this over.” 

Bucky nods then gets down on the floor; he's capable of three and a half minutes now, though he's usually shaking like Jell-O by the end.

Steve leans against the door, half-watching, and half-focused on the app. Bucky, not one to forget a lesson, stays in position even when he's sure three and a half minutes have elapsed. Holds himself rigid until his arms are shaking badly enough that he has to lace his fingers together and lower his head to keep himself upright.

He’s mere seconds from collapse, in fact, when Steve nudges him with the toe of his sneaker. “Stop.”

Bucky drops, breathless, and sucks in a few deep breaths. 

“That was almost four, by the way,” Steve informs him. “Good job.”

Grinning at the praise, he turns his head and presses his cheek to the linoleum. It smells like disinfectant and rubber, but it's okay. The floor is fine. Better than hovering twelve inches above it while his muscles scream in protest, at any rate.

“Whenever you’re ready, we can warm up,” Steve continues, stepping over him and taking a seat on the wooden chair, where he pats his lap in invitation.

Bucky doesn’t need much recovery time before he pushes himself up on limp-noodle arms, debating the merits of crawling before ultimately walking over to drape himself across Steve’s lap. For as many times as he’s been in this position, it feels novel to be taking it fully-clothed. But Steve hasn’t asked him to undress, so he has to assume it’s intentional.

"So," Steve says once he's settled, wasting no time in laying a series of sharp slaps against the seat of his black dress pants. "Eighty-three percent of the time, you're killing it on the posture—that's some pretty rapid improvement, pal."

“Thanks, I’m—” A pernicious pop necessitates a pause as he sucks in a breath. It seems going a month without a spanking has softened him. “I’ve been trying.”

“Not quite to ninety, but that’s for me to worry about.” He picks up speed, keeping the intensity the same, slowly but surely working Bucky up to a state of prickly discomfort, already a bit too warm in his confining clothes. No sooner has Bucky yowled his first little bit of protest, though, than Steve stops, nudging him gently and pointing to the floor by the chair. “Kneel there.” 

"Is…uh… okay," he says, not wanting to contradict an order, but also wondering why the warm-up was so short.

Steve picks up what he’s putting down anyway, a half-smile on his lips as he shrugs. “Count your blessings, Buck—this is gonna get worse before it gets better.”

“It is?”

“Yup. You okay to hang out here for a second? I’m gonna go set up the other room.”

“Other room?”

“Yeah, it’s—” His eyes flick to the door, then back. “—you mentioned wanting to try role-play sometime, so ah…”

Oh, hello there, happy place. Bucky grins. "I…yes. I did."

“You’ve done that before?”

“No…well, yes. Sort of.”

“Define sort of.”

“Like not really that seriously? One of my exes was in law school and wanted to play like…sexy Supreme Court justice seduces his clerk.”

Steve’s eyes light up. “Uhhhh…awesome.”

“He was an originalist, though, so…”

“Please don’t tell me you dated a Republican.”

“Libertarian.”

"I don't see how that's better," he teases, pressing the top of his foot to Bucky's groin with just enough pressure to make him shiver, and oh, fuck yes. There's the banter, there's the normalcy, there's the complete washing away of a month apart and his severe awkwardness in the lobby.

“Well, with libertarians, you don’t just get head, you get…you know. Fountainhead.”

“God damn it,” Steve says, starting to laugh. “I oughta put you back over my knee and…”

“Yes, please.”

“Quit derailing, Ayn Rand. You up for role-playing something more interesting than licking some wannabe Scalia’s taint?”

“Ew. Yup.”

“Good boy. Like I said, I need to go set up, but once you come in, we’re playing our parts unless either one of us safe words out. Got it?”

“Yeah, but…what parts? What’s the game?”

“That’s the surprise.” 

Huh. The dress code has him feeling business casual, so maybe it’s a sexy boss-employee thing? Or he’s Steve’s accountant? Or Steve’s really into corrupting Mormon missionaries? 

Probably not that last one. But Bucky would consider it. 

“Yeah, so,” Steve continues. “My friend will come and get you when I’m ready.” 

“Your friend?”

“The one I texted you about.”

“Oh! Right. Sorry, I thought you were gonna need like…help in the scene. Tying me up or something.” 

Steve laughs at that, one obstinate piece of hair falling into his eyes. “Not this time. But if you’re not averse, I _can_ do some interesting ties with an assistant.”

“Not averse.”

“Huh.” Raising a brow, he leans forward. “How not averse?”

“Like…uh, we should have a longer conversation sometime not-averse?”

“Gotcha. I’ll keep that in mind.” Closing the gap, Steve kisses him on the forehead, then pulls back with a smile. “Before I go, don’t think I’ve forgotten what happened last time. So, just to be clear: if you want to stop, it’s red. And yellow is a full sentence. You got me?”

“Got you.”

"Good boy." Steve stands, then looks down. "I'll see you in a minute. You don't have to stay kneeling. Oh, and uh, when my friend arrives? Call her ma'am—she's a stickler for protocol."

Then, with a ruffle of Bucky's hair, he's gone. Bucky, trilling with anticipation, gets up from the floor and sits on the padded bench, swinging his legs while he waits. Steve still has his phone, so there's nothing he can do but stare at the wall and think. Imagine. Fantasize. Only he doesn't want to do that, because over-anticipating what's to come might lead to disappointment. Instead, he focuses on the low hum of what he believes to be a white noise system, mounted somewhere in the ceiling, muffling the sounds emanating from various scenes. Smart idea; whoever put this place together knew what they were doing. He's honestly intrigued by that, how the dungeon functions as a business. How it profits from fetish and fantasy. Someone must own it—must be making good money from it—and he'd love to know who that someone is. All the minutiae would be fascinating to him, really. How are the employees paid? Who sets the schedule? Who cleans the rooms and does the laundry? Do they have to buy their own outfits, or does everyone get issued, like, a catsuit when they start? What about equipment? For the most part, Steve uses his own, but sometimes the rooms have boxes in them that presumably hold house stuff. Do they all chip in to a fund? How do they ensure everyone knows how to use everything safely? How do—

There’s a knock at the door. 

“Um.” He clears his throat. “Yes?”

He’s not sure the person can hear him over the white noise, but the handle turns all the same. Probably it was just a courtesy knock. When the door opens, the woman standing on the other side is familiar, though it takes him a moment to place her as the same redhead he’d seen in the lobby on his second visit. And while he’s _very_ gay, the kinkster in him appreciates her aesthetic appeal: full domme, in skintight leather pants and sky-high boots with a crisp white blouse tucked in on top. Said blouse is far from conservative, sporting a keyhole neckline that shows off an impressive amount of cleavage, and if he's not mistaken, the very tops of her areolas. Which is probably the whole point of the shirt—tease and titillate without revealing much at all. Her hair is wrangled into a loose bun, sitting low on her neck, a few tendrils framing her face, which is a fox-face. A pretty face. Red lips and blue eyes rimmed with kohl, expression halfway between amusement and nonchalance.

“Uh. Ma’am,” Bucky greets with a nod, unable to come up with anything more eloquent, but remembering Steve’s warning.

“Bucky, yes?” she asks, and while her tone is neutral, she’s looking at him in a way that makes him feel like he’s laid out on an X-ray bench. Only it’s an X-ray of the soul and spirit and, like, his worth as a human being. 

She’s intense, is all.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, swallowing.

Her smile widens, and she gives him the briefest of nods. “I’m Natalie. Mr. Grant asked me to fetch you.” 

Natalie—oh! She must be—might be?—the Nat of Steve's stories. The one who introduced him to all of this and set him up with the job. And also: "Mr. Grant? Ma'am?"

“Mr. Grant,” she repeats, then clicks her tongue and cocks her head to the side. “You know, it’s so funny...” 

“Funny, ma’am?”

"That you're _so_ respectful to me, when Mr. Grant mentioned that the reason you’re in trouble with him is for being _disrespectful_.” 

“I…was?”

“Mmmhmm. Tardiness is extremely disrespectful.” 

Oh. Fuck. “That’s…I mean, yes, ma’am.”

“Ten minutes late to class last time, I believe it was?”

Oh. Jesus. It’s _this_ fantasy. He hadn’t allowed himself to dream that it might be _this_ fantasy. The hot-for-teacher nonsense Steve had pried out of him their first night together. The thing he promised he’d trot out sometime, sure, but Bucky hadn’t been expecting it so soon, which is thrilling and overwhelming all at once. The idea of being in faux-trouble (albeit for a real transgression). Being lectured. Corrected. Absolved. 

It sends a shiver down his spine, even as Natalie clears her throat, obviously waiting for an answer. “Oh. Uh. Yes ma’am. I was late. Sorry.”

"It's not my concern," she says, pointing to the floor beside her and snapping her fingers in an explicit command. "Though I'm sure you're about to be sorrier. Quick, now, let's not keep Mr. Grant waiting."

Bucky slides off the table and crosses the room, head swimming. When he reaches her, she raises a brow, sizing him up from head to toe. 

“Tall, aren’t you?” she asks like she doesn’t understand why on earth he’s allowed himself to grow so large. As if it’s a moral failing on his part, rather than a biological fact. As if being taller than her is so offensive that he really ought to offer to kneel at her feet and correct the imbalance.

In other words, she’s very good at her job. 

“Uh. I am tall, yes, ma’am.” 

“Hmph,” she sniffs, then turns and walks away, leaving Bucky with no choice but to follow her down the hall, wallowing in the guilt of his unseemly height. 

They don't have far to go—end of the hall, then to the left, where there are more closed doors in a row. These, unlike the ones in the corridor off the lobby, are spaced further apart, and each one has a silver nameplate affixed to the wall beside it declaring its intended use; they pass _Barnyard_ and _Nursery_ before reaching _Classroom_. Bucky doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that his fantasy is so common that they have a room dedicated to fulfilling it, but whatever: nobody said he was an original thinker. 

Natalie knocks on the classroom door, waits, then opens it with an, “I’ve got Bucky for you, Mr. Grant.”

Surely that’s not really Steve’s last name? Bucky can’t imagine he’d divulge it so carelessly. But he doesn’t have much time to think about it, not with Natalie placing her hand on the small of his back to nudge him forward and into the classroom as Steve says, “thank you, Ms. Rushman.” 

Bucky's eyes widen as he takes in the room. It's surreal—like stepping into some fucked up version of his junior high experience. The classroom is a beige rectangle, twice as wide as the regular playrooms, at least, with an honest-to-god green chalkboard running the length of the far wall, complete with someone's half-finished write-offs. A wooden desk sits in front of the board, holding artfully arranged props: an apple, a stack of textbooks, a pencil cup. For the recalcitrant student (students?), of course, there are four small, straight-out-of-school desks lined up before the teacher's, all of them with tabletops attached to the chairs by slim metal rods. They're middle school desks rather than high school—the sort of desks that were too small for Bucky even then, so God knows how he'll wedge himself into one now.

Though, considering the surroundings, the added humiliation is probably the point.

The desks are where any similarity to real school ends, as the rest of the room is a tip-off to the reality of where they are—walls decorated with lewd sex-ed posters that would be wholly out of place in any real health class, a couch pushed against the wall by the door for aftercare, and a pegboard hanging on the wall to Bucky's left, boasting a variety of wicked-looking implements. Paddles that range from ping-pong to full fraternity, canes ascending from whippet-thin to one that would easily support any human's weight, and a few tawses and straps to round out the collection.

And then, there is Steve. Leaning against the desk. Still in his t-shirt and jeans but with an honest-to-god tweed blazer over the top. It fits him poorly—too tight across the shoulders, too short in the sleeves—but it sets the scene nicely. Bucky can’t help staring, a slow, stupid smile spreading across his face, though he can’t seem to find the right words to say. 

“Anything else you need, Mr. Grant?” Natalie asks, cutting through the clutter in his head.

“Nope. Thank you again, Ms. Rushman.”

“Of course. You ought to know, he’s been very respectful.”

“Is that so?” Steve says, raising a brow. “Glad to hear it.”

"Good luck, Bucky," she replies before departing, the door clicking shut behind her.

Bucky turns his attention to Steve, who is looking at him expectantly, with barely concealed mirth. “Well, Mr. Barnes?”

“Uh.” Bucky blinks. “What?”

“I told you to take a seat.”

Had he? He can’t recall hearing that particular command, but also, he’d been distracted when he first walked in, so it’s entirely possible Steve _did_ tell him to sit down, and he missed it.

Not wanting to provoke further ire, he slides into the front row's leftmost desk, knees wedged awkwardly beneath the tabletop, forcing him to hunch. "Sorry about that. Uh. Sir?" Because if he's playing the role of the student in his fantasies, then he is respectful and bright and above all _good_ , making the honorific seem necessary here in a way it isn’t when they’re just being Bucky and Steve.

“Pay more attention next time,” Steve replies, all faux-causal and authoritative. “You know why you’re here, yes?”

"I—" A thin trickle of sweat runs down his neck. It has to be five degrees hotter in here than in the other room. "Because I was late?"

“Yup. It’s disappointing—sets a terrible example when my best student is late.” 

Bucky nod, a bloom of guilt unfurling in his chest. Only it’s not real guilt—not like last time—just a fun approximation of the emotion. One he can play with and manipulate, he hopes, to get him into the headspace where he can indulge and enjoy. “Gee,” he says, aiming for genuine sorrow. “I’m really sorry, sir. I promise it won’t happen again.” 

“I’m sure you’ll try, I really do. But that doesn’t mean I can let this infraction go.”

Bucky’s dick twitches in his boxers. Christ, Barnes, get it together. If this is the one and only time he gets to live this fantasy, he’d better make the most of it. “Like…detention, sir?”

Steve’s mouth twitches. “Mmm, maybe. But—” he sighs, shaking his head, almost rueful. 

“What is it, sir?”

Another aggrieved sigh, followed by, “look, I _could_ give you detention. Probably should, in fact. But all you’ll do there is spend an hour copying words you already know out of the dictionary. That’s a waste of time for a student with so much…potential.”

Bucky nearly smiles but forces himself to channel his inner naive, unspanked idiot. "You think I have potential, sir?"

“Sure. But bringing that potential to the fore isn’t going to come from boring you to death in detention.”

“I guess that’s true,” he agrees, nodding slowly, deliberately walking into the trap Steve’s setting. “What _would_ enhance my potential, do you think?”

"Ah." Steve crosses his arms over his chest, the blazer straining at the seams. Truth be told, he's a lousy actor. Still, Bucky finds himself not caring much—something about the overwrought, half-smirky way he's delivering his porno-adjacent dialogue is really doing it for him. "In my experience, potential is best brought out through more…physical corrections.” 

Bucky can’t resist. “Physical, sir? Like running laps? Doing pushups? Holding a plank?”

Steve snorts, and he drops his head to compose himself. “No, nothing like that.”

“Then what, sir?”

“Well, Bucky, the plan is, I’m going to bend you over my desk and paddle your ass red,” he says on one big exhale, still trying not to laugh. 

And, yes, in a lot of ways, it _is_ hilarious. But that doesn't change the fact that Bucky's dick is dancing a jig, and he's stepped through the looking glass into Horny MasochistLand. So, he plays into it, all wide-eyed shock. "Paddle me, sir? But won't that hurt?"

Steve snorts, face red as he pushes away from the desk and goes to the wall that holds the pegboard. It takes him a minute to get hold of himself, but when he does, he reaches up to take down the middle paddle, which is bigger than the one he used the first time they scened, but not so terrifying as the giant fraternity paddle. It also, Bucky is pleased to note, has holes drilled into the wood, and the phrase ‘Board of Education’ branded along the top edge. Which, yeah, that’s funny. 

“Punishments are supposed to hurt,” Steve says as he turns around, all traces of laughter gone. “So you learn not to repeat the bad behavior.”

“That makes sense, sir.” 

“It does. And speaking of bad behavior, there is _one_ other thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“There is, sir?”

“You know you’re one of my smartest students, don’t you?”

“I think you might’ve called me a genius once or twice, sir.”

“Well, exactly,” he agrees, not bothering to hide his grin. “Smart, respectful. A role model for your peers. Mostly.”

“Um, thank you, sir?”

“So it annoys the hell out of me when you sit in class, slumped over at your desk rather than sitting up straight. I know you’re paying attention—your grades are proof of that—but you don’t _look_ like you are. And that sets a bad example.”

“Um. I didn’t realize I was slumping, sir? These desks are kinda small…”

“You don’t do it all the time. Maybe…hmm. If I had to put a number on it, I’d say you have terrible posture, oh, seventeen percent of the time?”

What an asshole. Bucky grins, then lowers his head. “Sorry, sir.”

"That's alright—by the time we're finished, you won't be sitting for a while, so the problem solves itself. Now—" He taps the paddle against his palm. "You were ten minutes late to class, so you've got ten strokes coming. Sounds fair, doesn't it?"

“Eminently reasonable.” 

"As for the posture, let's add another five. Fifteen in total."

Fifteen. With that paddle. That thick, heavy paddle. That…is theoretically possible. Because yeah, sure. He can do fifteen. Hell, he can do twenty. Probably. Maybe. Whatever. He has a safe word. He’ll be fine. So he nods, giving his teacher a smile. “That’s totally fair, sir.” 

“Good boy,” Steve says, and Bucky lights up a little. “Come up here, and we’ll go over the ground rules.”

Because, of course, there are additional rules. Steve is, after all, himself, even when he's pretending to be someone else.

Bucky bounces to his feet, too eager for a kid on his way to a paddling, but who cares? Steve drops his palm to the top of the desk in invitation. "We'll talk once you're positioned—go ahead and bend over, put your weight on your forearms, then clasp your hands together."

Bucky bends at the waist and adopts the position. “Like this, sir?”

“Nearly,” Steve says, ever particular. “Spread your legs, wide as you can.” 

Obviously. Bucky smirks, shuffling his feet out until his pants are pulled tight against his ass, balls protesting the squeeze. 

“Very good,” Steve says, placing a hand on his back.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. There’s no good place to look, so he settles for resting his forehead against his hands. 

“So, ground rules. After each stroke, I want you to count it out loud, thank me for it, and ask me for another. Got that?” 

Christ, Steve remembers _everything_. The mental Rolodex he must be keeping of kinky shit Bucky's expressed an interest in is staggering. Grinning, Bucky nods. "Yes, sir."

“If you lose count, forget to count, or don’t count fast enough—” 

“What’s fast enough?”

Steve pops him on the ass with an open palm, a warning not to interrupt, and a reminder that Bucky still has to adhere to _their_ rules, no matter the game. “Fast is whatever I say fast is.” 

Resisting the urge to squirm, he nods. “Sorry, sir.” 

“As I was saying, if you lose count, or you’re not fast enough, the number drops by two. So, let’s say you forget to count eleven, then we’d go back to nine.” 

Which would add three strokes to the overall punishment. Definitely not a mistake he wants to make. “Understood, sir.” 

“That’s a smart boy. Oh, and just so you know going in, you’re taking the first five over your pants, the next five on your shorts, and the final five on your bare ass.” 

Oh, yes. The anticipation of everything getting _so_ much worse is half the fun, as far as Bucky’s concerned. Plus, bare ass means the possibility that this might turn into something that allows him a bit of relief. He definitely wouldn’t mind the opportunity to get off. Or to get Steve off. Which…yeah, wishful thinking on that one, let’s be real.

Still, he plays his part, feigning surprise as he looks over his shoulder. “Um. But, sir?”

“What?” Steve says, attempting blasé and landing on mildly-inconvenienced muskrat. 

“Well. You’d see my uh…?” 

Steve tuts. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. But if you’re so concerned with modesty, maybe you should get to class on time.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” 

“Good boy. Let’s get this over with.” With that, he steps back. Takes off his blazer. Taps the paddle against Bucky’s ass. Then: a whoosh of air, a crack, and, suddenly, pain. Not as sharp and immediate as a blow against bare skin but a muted, leaden wave of discomfort that forces a gasp out of his mouth, toes curling against the insides of his dress shoes. 

“Oh, one!” he blurts, likely just in time. “One, thank you, sir. Can I have another?” 

Steve obliges swiftly. There's a second. Then a third. A fourth. A fifth. Each one is a little bit harder and a lot bit worse. But it's nothing Bucky can't handle, nothing he can't grit his teeth and bear. There's power in the swings, yes, but not as much as there could be, because Steve's taking his time. Building up Bucky's tolerance while pushing him to take a bit more with every hit.

"Five," he grunts when the fifth stroke cracks against his sit spot, bringing with it the first wave of tears to his eyes. "Oh, damn it, ow, _thank_ you, sir." He can't finish without another breath, which he sucks in and blows out with a "pleasecanIhaveanother?"

“Not yet,” Steve replies. “Stand up. Take off your shoes and your pants.” 

Bucky doesn't even blink, just stands and starts toeing off his shoes, hands moving to his belt buckle, undoing it efficiently. It's interesting, this reacting-without-thinking thing. Maybe that's how they break you down in boot camp? Steve's as effective as any drill sergeant, if so. Belt undone, he pushes down his pants, revealing grey cotton boxers, which seem exceptionally thin and flimsy in light of the heavy paddle. There is minimal dignity in undressing, plus he wants to get back to things, so he kicks his clothing to the side then moves to get back in position.

Another tutting sound from Steve brings him up short. “Don’t you know how to take care of your things?”

Fuck. Of course he does. And he knows it’s another Steve-rule that he follows without thinking in the other room, but his brain has slipped in here. Face growing hot, he crouches, picking up his pants to shake them out and fold them into thirds. “Sorry, sir.” 

“Probably. That’s going to cost you, though—I’m adding a stroke, so you’ll remember from now on.” 

A pit of not-quite-shame and not-quite pleasure opens within Bucky as he takes a moment to smooth out every wrinkle before handing his pants to Steve, who places them on the corner of the desk. “This is for your own good, you know.”

Bucky’s semi, which had wilted somewhat during the paddling, is commencing its rapid rise once more, straining against the soft cotton of his boxers as he bites back a smile. “Yes, sir. I understand. Sorry I’m giving you so much trouble.”

“Well, that’s the thing about teaching, Bucky,” he replies, moving a hand to Bucky’s shoulder, nudging him back over the desk. 

“What is, sir?” he asks, spreading his legs wide as he places his weight back on his arms. 

“I can’t give this sort of one-on-one attention to every student. There are lots of kids who are trouble, and I can’t help them all. But with a student like you…with all that potential, like I said…” 

He pauses, stepping closer, and Bucky sucks in a breath when those big, warm hands fall to his ass, kneading his sore skin. “Ohhhfuck,” he mutters, totally out of character and not caring. 

“With a student like you,” Steve repeats, thumb tracing a line down the material covering his crack, voice deepening as he bends over him, each word bringing him closer, breath hot on Bucky’s neck. “I want to see you succeed.”

Bucky groans, desperate to rock back against Steve's hands but also wanting to grind against the desk for more friction, and this is torture, and oh, right, he's here for torture. He _likes_ torture. “That’s…” He licks his lips. “Nice of you. Sir.” 

"It is, isn't it?" Steve says happily, before giving his shoulder blade what feels like a bite and stepping back with a swiftness. This elicits a groan from Bucky, both for the loss of the pleasant weight and the understanding that his punishment will be recommencing. "These five will be harder."

He hasn't quite caught up with Steve's promise before the first hit comes, and _Christ_ , if the earlier strokes had been fives or sixes on the pain scale, this is a solid eight. His hands skitter forward a few inches, left foot leaving the ground, kicking against empty air. “Oh, _oh_!” 

Steve waits. Bucky remembers. “Six-thank-you-sir-another?”

“Didn’t say please, but I guess I can oblige,” he teases before landing seven, then eight the moment they’re requested, both just as hard, both taking Bucky’s breath away.

Nine, however, catches him right on his sit spot with such a severe, sharp sting that he stands straight up and grabs his ass, reflexes overriding good sense. 

Steve gives him no quarter. "Nope," he corrects, laying a smack to the backs of his hands with his bare palm. "You've got three seconds to get back over that desk, or we're starting from one."

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he yowls, tears freshly spilling as he releases his hold and bends back over the unyielding desk, muscles clenching and releasing. He _can’t_ do another one like that. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he…well. Okay. He can. He definitely can because it hurt and it sucks but now that the pain is fading a little, he can admit that it was fun and scary and he liked it and…

Huh. This is probably why Steve keeps calling him a masochist. 

“I guess this means we’re going back to seven?” Steve queries. 

“Whuh?” he garbles, and oh. Fuck. He forgot to fucking count. “Fuck, I’m sorry. That was nine, sir, can I please have another? Please, ten, sir?” 

Steve lets out an incredibly aggrieved sigh, then taps the paddle against Bucky's throbbing backside. "Tell you what," he says, all kindness and warmth. "I'm going to repeat nine, then add another stroke at the end. So, seventeen in total."

"Yes!" Bucky exclaims, because if his mental math is right, then that's one less stroke to endure, and he doesn't know why Steve's being so nice, but he'll take it. (Granted, his mental math could be way off, but also, thinking is hard when your brain's descending to your dick.)

“You’re gonna have to stand in the corner after, though. For, mmm…ten minutes.” 

Huh. Standing in the corner. Bucky wrinkles his nose. Maybe that’s a Steve thing? It’s certainly not a _him_ thing. It seems a little silly, truth be told. But it’s not offensive, either, and if it _is_ a Steve-kink thing, then he’s happy to oblige—he’s always into learning more about what makes Steve tick. “Uh. Okay, sir. Thank you for um, being nice?”

“Not that nice,” he says, then steps back and lets fly. 

The resulting stroke sucks, but it doesn't suck quite as hard as stroke nine, original flavor. As if Steve can tell he needs a reprieve and has adjusted accordingly.

He really is good at this. 

“Nine, sir,” Bucky sniffles within a couple of seconds. “Thank you. Ten, please?” 

Ten is swift, a sharp whack to the upper half of his ass, causing him to rock forward on his toes before barking out his count and requesting eleven. 

“Soon enough,” Steve says, setting down the paddle. “I’m going to have you change position for these last ones, alright?”

“Sure,” he mumbles, because what’s he going to say, no?

"Good boy. Stretch out, so your torso is flat on the desk—you can use your fingers to hold onto the edge. Keep your legs spread, though."

The position, as Bucky slumps into it, is a relief. Because his forearms are sore, and his elbows are aching, and holding himself up is getting tougher. Relaxing against the desk proves a balm, even though it means his ass is pointed up and out, vulnerable and open in a way he wasn’t before. 

It occurs to him that he’s still wearing his boxers, pulled taut against tender skin. Surely Steve hasn’t forgotten? Steve never forgets anything. Steve…

Steve is taking his boxers off _for_ him. Hooking his fingers in the waistband of Bucky's shorts. Then, oh, fuck. He's kneeling or crouching or something because Bucky can feel his warm breath on the skin of his upper thigh. Can feel him pause. Lean in. Press the barest whisper of a kiss to the place where the fabric ends, and Bucky begins.

“You’re taking this so well,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Bucky to hear over the sound of his own heartbeat. “I’m so proud of you.”

That’s Steve, he knows. Not a character. It’s a check-in, albeit a small one, and Bucky smiles. “Thanks,” he says, just as Steve begins lowering his boxers, pace agonizingly slow. Dragging them over the swell of his ass, fingernails scratching parallel lines of discomfort on the way down. 

"Lift your foot, there's a good boy," he coaxes, sliding the boxers off one side, then the other. Probably he folds them, too, because, of course, Steve _would_ fold them. Because Steve takes care of his things. Takes care of Bucky’s things. 

“Thank you, sir,” he sighs, flexing his toes, glad to still have his socks on, at least. 

“You’re welcome,” he replies, voice pitched low, because he’s still kneeling there. Still close. And it’s not as though he hadn’t been close before—he’s been closer, in fact—but this is different because Bucky wants him more now. And deep down, a timid little voice within has begun to assert that Steve might just want him, too. At least a little. 

A minute ticks by, and Steve doesn’t move, so Bucky chances it, lifting his head with a quiet, “sir?”

“Shh,” he corrects, and then his hand is on Bucky’s ass. Fingers spreading his cheeks so he can blow a line of cool air across his hole, causing it to clench in anxious anticipation of _something_. God, he’s _right there_ ; if he wanted to, he could eat Bucky out. Slip his tongue inside. Taste him. Spread him open and sink into him. Take him. Fuck him until he can't see straight, and oh, Jesus, he wants that. Wants that more than anything. Rolls his forehead against the desk in frustration, calves cramping with the effort of holding himself still.

Steve chuckles, and Bucky can feel the vibrations. Closes his eyes with a frustrated whine. 

“Do you like that?” he teases. 

Well, yes, he fucking likes it. But they're supposed to be role-playing, and Steve had said they'd be in character unless there was a safe word, and Bucky's not anything resembling yellow. So he sighs. Swallows. Licks his lips and plays his part. "Um, I don't know, sir?" he says, hoping for confusion instead of abject lust.

“Ohhh, I think you do,” he murmurs, tapping the tip of his finger against Bucky’s pucker. “You’re hard.” 

“I…” 

"It takes a particular sort of student to enjoy a correction so much. But I knew you were special the first time I saw you, Bucky."

His world has narrowed to that teasing finger, and it’s all he can do to manage a, “you did, sir?”

“Mmmhmm.” The finger slips down his crack, until Steve’s hand is cupping his balls instead. Rolling them between his fingers as Bucky rocks up and down on his toes, the sweat beading on his forehead falling to the desk, all the while fighting the urge to reach down and touch himself. “There’s nothing to eye embarrassed about, Bucky. It’s fine to enjoy this.”

Christ. He clears his throat. “I’m not embarrassed, sir.”

“Oh no?”

“Nnno…it feels um, good. So, please…” 

The would-be request triggers something in Steve's sadistic brain because he chooses that moment to give Bucky's balls a not-so-gentle tug, then lets go completely. "Please finish my correction, sir? Is that what you were going to say?"

“Uhhhh…” He frowns, licking his lips, Steve’s flip from purring to practical throwing his senses for a loop. 

“I thought so,” Steve says, giving his sack a smack that’s hard enough to jolt him out of his libido-driven reverie. “Hold your position, let’s get this done.”

“Fuck,” he can’t help muttering. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good boy. I’m going to make these last seven count.” 

Bucky steels himself. Grips the desk and decides that he is going to be perfect. He is going to hold himself together for these seven strokes with nary a sob or a whimper. 

That notion goes right out the window on stroke eleven, which explodes across his bare ass, the pain coming without protection as a bright, miserable thing, cutting to the deepest parts of his muscles, leaving him speechless until Steve's voice finally, mercifully, breaks through the blooming haze.

“Are you planning on counting that one, or…?”

Fuck. “Eleven please more thank you, Steve. I mean, sir.” 

The count must have been quick enough, as Steve says no more about it, just lays stroke twelve down in short order, forcing Bucky up on his toes, a disconsolate moan escaping as his left arm lifts from the desk and moves back to cover himself because he definitely can’t do five more. Can’t even do one more. Can’t do this at all. 

Only, Steve stops him. Grabs his wrist and pins it to his lower back, then leans over him once again. Presses down with his bulk so Bucky's arm is twisted at an angle that borders on unbearable, but he can't care about that because he's pretty sure he can feel the line of Steve's cock rubbing against his sore ass. And that? That's enough to make him believe he can endure a hundred thousand more hits.

“You have been _such_ a good boy,” Steve rumbles, voice curling around the shell of his ear. “So count that fucking stroke.”

“Twelve!” he whimpers as his nose begins to run. God, how Steve can be finding this attractive, he’ll never know, but he’s hard, so Bucky must be doing something right. “Sorry, sir. Thank you. Please, can I have another?”

“Yes,” Steve replies, kissing a spot just below his ear. “I know it’s hard not to move, but I want you to try.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, and it’s tough to say if he’s answering as Bucky-in-the-game or Bucky-in-real-life, though the guilt curling in his belly is indifferent. 

Steve lifts his hips just enough that Bucky can pull his arm free. “Hold onto the edge of the desk, like you were.” He complies, and Steve leans in close to whisper, “if you move your hand again, I’m going to add five. Do it again after that, it’s ten. Three times, fifteen. I don’t care if I have to paddle your ass a thousand times. You got me?”

Bucky shudders around a groan, rolling his hips so he can feel Steve’s length, the threat a hollow turn-on. “Y-yes, sir,” he whimpers.

“Mmm.” Steve touches his lips to the curve of his ear. “You sure you’re not seeing red about it?”

Nearly smiling now, he swallows and shakes his head. “Not seeing red, sir. Not even seeing yellow.” 

“Attaboy,” he replies before pulling away. 

The thirteenth stroke is lighter. Not _light_ —Steve’s not doing light—but the blow is glancing, and while Bucky still goes up on his toes, it’s easier to bear. Easier to spit out, “thirteen, thank you, sir, may I have another?”

"Sure, you can," he says, amiable as he lets fourteen fly. It's light, too, and Bucky thinks he could have taken a harder one because he's starting to float away. Lifted on a cloud of pain, pleasure, and the reassurance that Steve is enjoying this as much as he is. (Although his own prick has long since gone soft, thanks to the paddle. There's masochism, sure, but also, there's biology.)

Steve rubs the flat of the paddle against Bucky’s prickling behind. “Just think, if you’d been better behaved, this would be the last one.”

Bucky finds he can think of nothing else as Steve swings, the sharp slap echoing through the room, harder than thirteen and fourteen combined. And so, he hollers. Digs his fingernails into the underside of the desk, mindful to keep his hands right where they are, because he can do that. He can be a very, very good boy.

Talking, however, is a trickier proposition. All he can manage is a muffled mess of half syllables and sniffles that comes out as, "fih-een, siiihh…oh, more?"

The garble is good enough for Steve, who gives him a slightly-less-sharp sixteen, aimed higher on his ass, digging into the meat. Bucky clenches down, hands desperate to rub and grab, and now he's blubbering out his count and his thanks and feeling like a frantic little snot-nosed baby with his nose running like a faucet and tears streaming from his eyes.

“Yeah, in a second,” Steve mutters, taking a step closer. “Jesus, I can feel the heat coming off you. You’re gonna have bruises.”

Bucky only manages a hiccup and two coughs, turning his head so he can wipe his grimy nose against his sleeve. “Cool.”

“Seriously?” Steve laughs, then runs a hand up his left flank, palming his ass and giving it a squeeze. “Just one more, okay? I know you can take one more, Buck. You’re so good for me, aren’t you?”

If Steve believes it, then it’s true. That’s all there is, really: Steve’s truth and Bucky’s faith. No panic, no need for second-guessing, no guilt. Bucky nods, dragging in a deep breath. “I can take it, sir.”

"Yes, you fucking can," he agrees. "You know the last one's always hardest, right?"

Bucky didn't know that, but he knows Steve, and knows that only a true sadist would tell him, so the anticipation might be that much worse. "Yes, sir."

“Don’t you dare move those hands unless you want fifty more in short order,” he growls. 

With that, he lays the final stroke, knocking the breath from Bucky's body one last time. The swing is so hard that he doesn't even feel the pain at first. That's how bad it is: his body creates some mental shield to protect him from the oncoming agony, a brief respite that comes crashing down seconds later, and _oh,_ he’s bawling now. Squalling his frustration as he digs his nails into the wood. Kicking his feet before going limp against the desk, panting, sobbing, chest heaving.

Steve places the paddle down, and then his hands are slipping under Bucky's armpits. Guiding him to his feet and into a hug, where he rubs the tension from his shoulders and holds him close. Supports him because he's earned that support. Because he endured. He took his lumps and then some. For Steve, sure, but for himself, too. And oh, yes, he wants to play this game again. He'd bend over that desk right now if Steve asked him to, but Steve won't because Steve knows what he can handle. Knows what he needs.

“You took that so well,” he murmurs. “Seriously, Buck. That was impressive.”

“Fuck,” is all he can manage in response, voice thick and slow as fresh tears fill his eyes. “Hurts.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure. It’s gonna hurt every time you sit down this week.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he laughs. “Can you stand on your own, or do you still need me?”

“I can do it,” he says, though he certainly hopes his tone implies that he’d rather not.

“Let’s give it a shot. Don’t forget about that corner time you earned.”

Damn it. Actually, he _had_ managed to forget. But now he remembers. And the remembrance is unwelcome because he's tired and sore and he just wants to lie on the couch and get his ass rubbed, thank you _very_ much, Steve. 

But, Jesus, if he can endure seventeen smacks with that stupid paddle, he can handle ten minutes of being bored in a corner. 

“Oh yeah. I did forget,” he agrees, pressing his wet face against Steve’s neck, because he doesn’t often have the opportunity to do so, and he likes the smell of Steve’s soap. 

“Happy to jog your memory,” he says, tugging on his collar. “Over here.” 

‘Here’ is the corner nearest the door—the one that’s most visible from the teacher’s desk. Steve points to it, a pleased grin on his face. “Ten minutes, facing the wall. Hands behind your head, and lace your fingers. No rubbing, and keep the squirming to a minimum.” 

Ugh. Whatever. It’s fine. Bucky sniffs and pauses to wipe his eyes with his sleeve before taking the position and lacing his fingers behind his cotton-wool-stuffed head. “Like this, sir?” he asks, noting that the stance has the added benefit (for Steve) of hitching his shirt up, putting his ass on display. 

“Just like that.” 

"Okay," he agrees, voice hitching, as his breath is still on the lam, and he has yet to catch it.

“Good boy. I’ll set a timer while I uh…work on your term paper.”

That, at least, is a cute nod to the fact that they're still ostensibly role-playing. Maybe. It's hard to tell at this point. Mostly because, once Steve is gone, it's hard to keep himself in the role-play mindset. Hard not to let his thoughts drift to their usual anxious, Bucky-ish places. Which: no. Not allowed. To stave off a spiral, he starts running through and cataloging his various discomforts to stay present in his head. There is, of course, the obvious pain—that stretched tight bruised-up minefield of twitching and clenching muscle that was once his ass. But there are other sources of pain, and as the minutes tick by slowly, he becomes familiar with them all. Take, for example, his fingertips, which are half-asleep and tingling thanks to how hard he'd been digging his nails into the veneered wood of the desk. He worries about splinters—wants to check—but can't, because he's not allowed to move his stupid hands.

His legs are still shaking, knees wobbly and unsure as a newborn foal, involuntary judders of nerves and anxiety connecting them to the ball of lead that sits in the pit of his stomach. The sensation is not unfamiliar. All at once, he is fourteen, rambling at a podium in speech class; eighteen and speaking at his graduation; twenty-four and presenting at a conference for the first time; thirty and standing in a corner. Each iteration faced with the nonsensical quivering that comes when your body and brain are at a disconnect. Those moments when the former is fine, but the latter doesn't believe it. Keeps sending out those signals that say _fight, flight, make this fucking stop._ Only here, at least, those panicked tremors and shakes make sense. Here, they are a response to something real, visceral, and primal. Pain—actual pain—rather than the indignities of public speaking and those upsets his anxiety has visited upon him over the years.

It's cathartic to have those feelings here in this place. In these rooms where he has been put through his paces, safe and understood in a way he never has been before. Taken care of by the man sitting just a few feet behind him. Steve gets things about Bucky that he doesn't fully get about himself—sees inside him. Knows what scares him, what motivates him, what challenges him, what fuels him. Looks past his friendly facade and peers into the places within him that want what's scary, uncertain, and, yes, painful. Those deep, dark desires of being stolen away, broken down, forced to serve at someone else's pleasure because that would be simpler than navigating reality. Simpler than struggling with the mundane, everyday anxieties of living.

What does it say about him that his fantasies revolve around such a massive renouncement of control? Before Steve, he'd never acted on those urges, simply let them fester. Gave into guilt and worry that what he wanted was too dangerous and depraved to share with anyone, least of all a partner.

But then, there _was_ Steve. Brought to him through the combination of chance and a stupid, drunken email he would never have sent sober. Life gave him this person who sees those dark urges and says, _hey, Buck, you’re fine. Let’s go there together._

Bucky sobs. A broken off, cathartic release that drops his head to his chest, fingers flexing against his tangled locks. He doesn't know why he's crying again, but he can't stop now that he's started. Can't turn it off, simply has to let it run its course.

Behind him, Steve shifts. A subtle squeak of springs reminding Bucky that he’s not alone; that Steve is with him now as much as he was earlier, draped across him, pressing him to the desk. 

The recollection makes him shiver. He can still feel the ghost of Steve’s prick lined up against the abused skin of his ass. So near, and a million miles away. 

He hiccups. Shifts his weight as his cock swells because there is no accounting for penises during corner time, apparently. What had he looked like to Steve, all spread out on the desk? What had been the turn on? Half-naked and sobbing, lying there, begging for more. He doesn't see the appeal, but then, he's not the one wielding the paddle. Steve likes it enough for both of them, so maybe that makes it lovely, in its own way.

God, he wants Steve so fucking much. It’s scary, really, because for as often as he thinks about what Steve might be like beyond the shores of this island of desire they inhabit together, he’s not so naive as to believe Steve will be easily won. There’s a wall inside of him—a closely guarded place covered in a thick bramble of thorny vines—and Bucky’s equipped with no more than the emotional equivalent of a plastic spork. And a bent one, at that. 

The timer goes off, a klaxon blare jolting him from his thoughts, which makes Steve laugh. “Sorry! I thought I set it to a bell…fuck, sorry.” The siren stops, and he clears his throat. “You can relax, Buck.” 

Bucky sighs. Lowers his arms and once more uses his shirt to wipe his damp face before turning. He’s not actively crying anymore, but there’s no hiding the fact that Steve just watched him have a total breakdown in that corner. 

“Thanks,” he says, only half caring that his dick is poking through the split in his shirtfront. 

“For what?’ Steve asks, eyes traveling down. 

“Everything. But uh. The corner?”

“Huh.” He smiles. “You didn’t look that happy about it when you started.”

"I wasn't. But it was uh…good. To kinda like, have time to be quiet and think." And cry. And think some more. And cry some more. But not thinking and crying like last time—not in a shame-spiral-into-a-panic-attack sort of way. No, this particular sort of thinking had been downright cathartic.

“Some people might call that a positive step.”

“Would _you_ call it that?” 

“Some people,” he repeats, coming out from behind the desk, where he crosses to the couch and sits. “Say, you wouldn’t be interested in earning any extra credit, would you?” 

"Um…" Bucky's dick, a divining rod, is already leading him in Steve's direction. He should probably, maybe, consider asking more questions before agreeing to this, but you know, he's going with the flow. He's loose, he's cool, he's… remarkably worked up, actually.

“Have a seat,” Steve says, patting his lap. 

Oh, very good. Bucky grins. “Really?”

“Yeah. Face forward, put your legs on the outside of my thighs.” 

Yay, an awkward position that puts weight on his ass _and_ is needlessly exposing. It's the ur-Steve of arrangements. And yet, Bucky doesn't hesitate before sitting, spreading his legs and reclining against Steve's broad chest. It hurts, and Steve's jeans are awful against his bruised and broken ass, but it is also _gloriously_ intimate, so he can deal. (And—and!—Steve is one hundred percent still hard. So that’s excellent news.)

“Such a good boy,” he says, spreading his legs to force Bucky’s wider, which naturally puts more pressure on his ass. 

“Ow!”

“Extra credit takes some work, pal. I can’t make it easy on you.”

“Yeah, but what _is_ it, exactly?”

Steve smirks, one arm hooking around his stomach. From there, he bunches the material of his shirt in one fist and pulls it halfway up his belly. “You’re gonna jerk yourself off, and I’m gonna watch you do it. Then, I’ll know you learned your lesson.” 

“That’s some weird logic, teach,” he mutters, spitting into his palm and taking hold of his prick.

“Don’t sass me, or we’ll stop.” 

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Good boy. Show me what you like to do to yourself when you’re alone.”

One would think Steve might already know, considering he’s gotten Bucky off in spectacular fashion a few times now. But masturbation is different, and also, Bucky’s never been one for a lot of fancy tricks, so he strokes himself at a rapid clip, already teetering close to the edge. 

While he does that, Steve sort of…catalogues him? Like he's a primatologist and Bucky's some novel species, and he's trying to get a handle on, like, the male's masturbatory habits? Which is kind of nice, actually. Being observed. Performing. Pleasing Steve by pleasing himself and ooohhhh…he doesn't have time for deep thoughts. Not when he's this close.

“M’not gonna last long,” he mumbles, tongue between his teeth, head lolling against Steve’s shoulder. 

"Put your feet up on the couch," he says in response. "Open yourself up more."

Of course. “Sure,” he grunts, because at this point, he’s not capable of shame. The change in position forces him to rely on Steve for additional support, which he provides by sliding his free hand up Bucky’s shirt to pinch his nipple. Hard. 

“Fuck,” he moans.

“Language,” Steve chides, pinching harder, which causes his hips to stutter as a familiar tightening begins, low in his groin. Ah, he could ease off now, pump the brakes, but another stroke or two will push him past the point of no return. 

“Sorry,” he pants, not sure what he’s apologizing for, but doing it again all the same. “Sorry, sorry, gonna…ohhhhh, _fuck_.”

“It’s alright. Whenever you want, just let me see you. Need to see you.” 

_Need_. Steve _needs_ to see him. Bucky's eyes roll back in his head, and he triples his pace. Pants and hiccups his way to his reward, orgasm arriving on a whine and a choked off "guh- _huh_ ” that has to be the furthest thing from sexy. 

Most of his spunk lands on his stomach, though a few spurts manage to spatter on his shirt and Steve’s fist. He keeps pumping until he’s nearly spent, dropping his hand to the couch before he can cross the line into over-sensitive. Steve snorts, then picks up his slack, moving the nipple-pinching hand to his cock and pumping him dry, past the point of pleasure, until instinct overrides him and he jerks his hips back, letting out a whine of protest.

“Too _much_ ,” he complains.

To his surprise, Steve stops. Squeezes his dick one final time before dropping his hand to Bucky’s thigh instead. The other hand—the one holding his shirt, the one that got hit with some spunk—is held to Bucky’s lips. “Clean it up,” he instructs.

Bucky saw that coming a mile away, so he does as he’s told, licking up the mess, a familiar salty-bitter tang on his tongue. Once he’s through, Steve runs a finger through the come coating his stomach, then repeats the action. On and on until most of Bucky’s spend is right back inside of him and fuck, he ought to hate that. Ought to find it gross or embarrassing, to be finger-fed his own jizz. But he doesn’t. Can’t. Not when Steve’s the one telling him to take it. 

“You are such a good boy,” Steve murmurs when he’s through, using the hem of Bucky’s shirt to wipe away what scant traces of spunk remain. 

“Thank you,” he sighs, staying pliant as Steve arranges him, though this involves some movement—standing him up, turning him around, and helping him to lay facedown over his lap, where things have absolutely moved into aftercare mode. 

“God damn, your ass,” Steve says, letting out a low whistle. “You really are gonna bruise.”

“Says the man who was inflicting the damage,” he mutters, grinning against the material of the pillow he’s pulled beneath his head.

“Who, me? Nah—I blame the paddle.” 

Bucky snorts, and Steve digs into the couch cushions, producing a familiar bottle of lotion after a moment, no doubt stashed there before they started. Steve: a planner. Bucky loves to see it. 

“I debated that, actually,” Steve continues, uncapping the bottle. 

“Debated what?”

“Using a lighter one. I could have hit you more, but, ya know. We haven’t played with one that heavy, and I figured it would be more uh…impactful.”

Bucky groans. "Nice pun. Hey, hang on a second before you do the lotion."

“What?”

“Do you still have my phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you ah…could you take some pictures first?” He’s not posting it on Instagram or anything, but why shouldn’t he have a record of his achievements? 

Steve makes a pleased noise of agreement, resting a hand on his back and using the other to root around for his phone. No passcode is required for camera access, and while Bucky's surmised that Steve is something of a Luddite, he turns out to be capable of figuring that much out. "Just your ass?" he asks. "No face?"

“Definitely.”

“Smart boy. Hang on.”

There's silence for maybe thirty seconds, and then Steve hands the phone over. Bucky eagerly opens up the camera roll and actually gasps when he sees the photos. Sure, he'd had marks last time—two bright spots of discomfort that lasted a few days—but this is next level. His ass is a canvas of colors that range from bright red to almost an eggplant purple. It's…awesome, actually. Seeing that. If he'd been given the photos out of context, he wouldn't have believed it was him. Wouldn't have thought he could take so much.

“So, like,” he says after a moment of staring, glancing over his shoulder at Steve, who’s started rubbing the lotion into his skin. “I feel like it should hurt a lot more, considering how bad it looks?”

Steve laughs out loud, looking down with what Bucky wants to believe is genuine affection. “Yeah, believe me, you are…you got a hell of a pain tolerance, Buck. Way higher than mine. And we’re just getting started with this stuff. For now, though, try and relax? I want you to enjoy the comedown, too.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, closing his eyes and turning his head against the pillow again. “You’re so nice, after.”

“Yeah, funny how that works,” he teases, fingers dipping low to stroke along the crease where Bucky’s left thigh meets his ass. “That I’m caring during aftercare.”

“I mean, okay, yes, but surely this is boring for you.”

“Nope. But it’s interesting to me that you’re worried it could be. Why do you think I might be bored?”

“I don’t know. Why do you sound like a therapist?”

Steve’s hand rises and falls on his thigh, though it’s not really a slap, just a reminder to be polite sending a little thrill through him. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Answer the question: why do you think I might be bored?”

“I don’t…” he blows out a breath, wondering how he ended up being the one on the spot. “Not _bored_ , exactly, but surely doing this isn’t as much fun for you as the scene?”

“It’s all fun,” he clarifies, fingers trailing up and over Bucky’s ass, coming to rest near his tailbone. “And—this may shock you—I need some time to come back to the real world, too.”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess that makes sense.” He sighs, mulling it over, before changing course with, “your friend’s nice, by the way.”

Steve snorts. “She’ll love that you said that. Nobody pays her to be nice.”

Shrugging, he flexes his calves, already knowing they’ll be sore tomorrow, thanks to holding his position for so long. “She was nice to me. Although…” he trails off, unsure if he should say it.

“What?”

“Well, why did you need her, exactly? Couldn’t you have just told me to count to a thousand and walk down the hall myself?”

“I…could have done that, yes.”

“So, why—”

"Because she was curious about you," he replies, drumming his fingers against Bucky's spine. "Wanted to meet you."

“She did?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you talk about me to other people?”

A pause. “Yes.” 

“So, like, you two are _actual_ friends, not just work friends?”

“…yes?”

“Am I right in assuming she’s the one that got you into all this stuff? From your story?”

Another minuscule hesitation. “Yes. That’s Natasha.”

Bucky raises a brow. “Natasha or Natalie?”

“Uh. Shit.” A rarity: Steve is flustered. “Natasha. But you’d better call her Natalie when you see her here. Or, like, anywhere. Just…pretend you never heard me say Natasha.”

“What would she do to me if I slipped up?”

“It’s not what she’d do to _you_ …” 

“Wait, really?”

"Well, risk-aware and consensual, so nothing I don't want her to, but uh…she's deadly with a violet wand."

“You’ve done that with her?”

Steve shifts his weight, running a finger up Bucky's spine and making him shiver. "The best way to learn it is to live it."

“Oh.”

“But I haven’t subbed for anyone in a long time. Or, no more than it takes to try out an implement, so I know what I’m doing to someone else.”

“That makes sense,” he says, because it does, and it somehow makes everything that much better to know that Steve is aware of _exactly_ how much pain he’s doling out and choosing to do it anyway. Like he _knows_ Bucky can take it. “Steve’s uh…that’s your real name, right?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you use a fake one, too?”

“Because Steve’s a pretty standard, boring name. Plus, I have the privilege of being a six-foot-two dude who’s not likely to attract a stalker.” He pauses. “Or, at least, not a stalker I can’t handle.”

“ _Have_ you had a stalker?”

“You know, you ask a lot of questions for a guy who’s supposed to be relaxing.”

“I relax by running my mouth.”

“No shit? Then I guess you must be zenned the fuck out by now. Get up and get dressed.”

Bucky sees that he’s been bamboozled, frowning as he gets to his feet to retrieve his clothes. Still, he can’t resist catching Steve’s attention once he has his boxers back on, glancing over his shoulder. “You ever see _Risky Business_?”

“Yes. You’re better looking than Tom Cruise. Did you leave anything in the other room?”

“No.”

“Alright, then, we don’t have to make any pit stops.”

“We don’t?”

“When I walk you out.”

“You’re walking me out?”

“I don’t have anything else lined up tonight. So, yes, I’m walking you out.”

“What a gentleman.”

That gets one of Steve’s rare, bright grins, which remains on his face as he crosses to the desk and takes out a spray bottle of cleaning solvent. 

“What’s in that stuff?” Bucky asks, indicating the bottle after buttoning his fly.

“I never thought to ask—I just know it kills all the gross shit you probably left behind from drooling all over the desk.”

“Uh, excuse me, that was sweat and tears. Not spit.”

"Too bad—maybe sometime I'll gag you to remedy that issue."

“Oh.” He grins. “Okay.” 

“Were you one of those kids who asked ‘why’ a lot?” he presses, tossing the spray bottle back into its drawer and shutting it.

“Why don’t you ask my mother?”

“Don’t tempt me, I’ll make you call her for me.”

“Don’t tempt _me_ ,” he shoots back. “I’d love to listen in.”

“I’m quaking,” Steve says, hanging the paddle back on the pegboard. 

“You should be…ow, fuck,” he mutters, wincing as the two steps he takes toward the door produce fresh agony in his ass. “Even my boxers hurt.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna be miserable tomorrow,” Steve says, looking delighted about that as he folds his arms across his chest, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth to make a weird kissy noise. “Tell you what—no limits jerking off for the next two weeks. My treat.”

Bucky squints at this unexpected show of benevolence. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch! Can’t I be nice?”

“I mean, you’re always nice, you’re just not, you know, _nice_.” He punctuates the second nice with finger quotes, which gets another laugh from Steve. 

“Alright, there, ye of little faith. I _am_ nice, and I'm not absolving you of the other shit…planks, posture, all that stuff. You'd better be on your best behavior."

“Got it,” he says, giving him a half-salute before following him out into the hall, where he glances towards the as-yet-unexplored closed doors, some with their red lights on, some empty. “How many themed rooms are there?”

“A few. Why, you interested?”

“Yeah, actually. That was fun.”

"Then, that's for me to know, and you to find out."

“Such witty repartee, Steve, I’m impressed.”

“I can only work with what I’m given.”

“You’re such a dick,” he grins.

“On my better days,” he agrees, throwing an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and dragging him down the hall.

They make it as far as the corner outside before Steve stops him for a kiss. A light one—no more than a brush of lips, like it's a say so-long-for-now, but-not for-always, sort of kiss. Bucky leans into it, enjoying the intimacy, until Steve pulls away, humming and looking down in a manner that has him feeling every millimeter of the scant two-inch difference in their heights. "So," Steve says. "I'm taking the bus."

“I’m taking the train.”

“I’m guessing that train won’t be crowded, being as it’s so late.”

A strange thought, but sure. "Uh, no, probably not."

"So, you'll be able to get a seat."

“Yeah,” he says, then realizes. “Oh. No…” 

“Oh, yes,” Steve grins, the hand resting lightly on his back sliding down to give his ass two gentle pats. “You’re going to sit down the _whole_ ride home, aren’t you? And you’re not going to squirm. And you’re going to make eye contact and smile politely at people.”

“I take back what I said about you being nice.”

“Then maybe I’ll take back the unlimited jerking off…” 

“No, no, that’s…you misunderstand me, Steve. You’re not _nice_ , you’re fucking…you’re a benevolent _saint_ of a human being. They should _canonize_ you, is all I’m saying.”

“I am a saint,” he agrees with so much faux-solemnity. “And you, my friend, are gonna have one salty taint of a ride home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hey, it's only been...six-and-a-bit months since I posted the last installment. What even is time, really? (Did I forget how to post to AO3 and accidentally upload this without relationship or character tags the first time, only to delete it and repost? Who knows!)
> 
> Seriously, though, thank you to _everyone_ who has had a kind word or a comment about this series. I'm sorry it's taken me so long, and I'm sorry I can't respond personally to everyone. Life has been A Lot this year, which is certainly not unique to me, but in my case that A Lot has pushed me in a dry spell for writing the likes of which I haven't seen in quite some time. I'm working to overcome it, mostly by editing things that were already written, like this bit of GALTAL. I'm getting there, slowly but surely, working on this as well as some original fic that might one day see the light of day. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to Kate for her beta and her friendship. Thanks to you for reading, and thanks to the fan-freaking-tastic Buffy Sainte-Marie for the title inspiration.
> 
> More soon...sooner than six months, I swear it. Hope you all are keeping well.


End file.
